All Mapped Out
by AsMuchAsIEverCould
Summary: Remus Lupin's body was a map filled with crossing lanes and dead ends, scars that flitted from one place to the next. And it was taking him away. But where? One-Shot.


Remus Lupin's body was a map. It had rivets and curves, lines that patterned their way across his skinny limbs, ones that cut up the sides of his neck and speckled his scrawny chicken legs. He would sit in front of the mirror for hours, staring at his bare body and tracing them—the _scars . _They criss-crossed and polka-dotted, cluttering in random places, filling up the spaces where, at his age, he should have gotten body hair. They were more so on his chest and arms than his face, yet he had two haggard silver lives on his left cheek, so visible and clear that Remus ducked his head everywhere he went. He cut his hair awkwardly and uneven in hopes people would stare at it instead of the obvious. He forced himself into long-sleeve t-shirts and unflattering sweaters to hide the scars and stayed in his room for as long as his mother allowed.

"No one's going to like me at Hogwarts," he tried to tell them.

They never believed him.

"How am I going to make any friends?" he always asked.

They never listened.

So he sat in his room some more and counted his scars, tracing the dents and memories that were engraved in his flesh. They were a map. He was convinced of that. They were going to lead him somewhere, and that place was not Hogwarts, nor was it his home, nor was it anywhere where people could stare. Maybe they led out of town, to a cabin or a farm home, with lots of open areas for the Wolf to graze.

The Wolf liked open areas.

But the irritating part was that he didn't really _know._ The scars and lines were too confusing , the roads interlacing and twining, stemming across his torso and across his chest, cutting across his clavicle, as if trying to reach his mind but not quite making it.

So he waited for the answers, by Gods, he waited. He sat in that room for years with his holey sweaters, in front of that damned mirror, clutching at his skinny sides and pulling at his hair, because his mind couldn't comprehend just _where _he was going. He wasn't going to a future. He wasn't going to a job or wife or kids, and he wasn't going to Hogwarts. He just wasn't. Then where was this map taking him?

The indecision made the full moon harder, the Wolf edgier, the instinct stronger, and his scar count just climbed.

And so his frame had more roads and routes, back turns and dead ends, and he found himself getting lost with his own thoughts too often without ever leaving his spot on the carpet.

And the day came where his letter sat on the kitchen counter, opened only by his parents but untouched by Remus, and in spite of the miracle, the absolute desire to practice what he had been gifted with, he couldn't think about studying there without his stomach doing uncertain somersaults.

So he counted and waited, and he was still waiting the day at the train station as he gathered his things, hooking his bag over his arm, and ran through the barrier to Platform Nine and Three Quarters.

It was only a little chilly out, and it was as nice as London got in September, but he dressed heavy in a thick wool jumper and long pants, a beanie that covered his head, because his mother had made him cut his hair (a stupid decision, given that it hide most of the scrapes on his forehead).

"Be good," his mother said as she kissed his forehead, and his father looked down at him sweetly.

He told them he would and boarded the train willingly, if not a little miffed.

At first he had trouble finding a compartment, but once he did, he made sure to shut the door so no one else would come in.

Outside the window, as the train pulled out, he could see _everything_. The ride was long enough so that he got the full gift of the hills, the rolling mountains and lush open fields, trees that were just starting to crackle and turn golden, warm colors with the season, falling to the grass like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, and again, his stomach was doing uncertain somersaults.

He took off his gloves and pushed up his sleeves so he could see his scars. He counted them and traced them, barely touching it with the pads of his thumbs, like a whispering phantom of a touch, and he felt calmer somehow. Where were they taking him?

The castle loomed in the distance, so big and impressive, and he thought maybe—just maybe—he knew exactly where.

Remus jumped noticeably when the door to his compartment rolled open loudly, and he hurriedly pulled the sleeve down and his gloves back on. A young boy about his age was standing there, another boy behind him peeking over his shoulder. He was aristocratic and cold looking, dark hair, light eyes, and fair skin—made of colors like stony gray, blues, whites, blacks, and silvers.

There was not a single scar on him.

At least not visibly—Remus had learned the difference.

But that all changed when the boy smiled. It was whole and hearty, showing all of his teeth, the kind of devilish, Chershire smile that cut his face in half, and suddenly he was not as cold, because Remus could feel the warmth.

"Mate, get on your robes, we're already here! You're gonna be late."

Remus staggered onto his feet. They were numb.

"Where do I—?"

"Down that hall and to your left is a washroom," said the boy helpfully and he did not look disgusted, yet he could obviously see how ugly Remus was—couldn't everybody?

Then why was he still smiling? And for once, someone was looking into his eyes and not at the rest of his face!

So he picked up his bag and headed out. The boy had sat down in a chair and rested his head on his fist, the other sitting across from him. Waiting. Waiting for _him_. To think!

Remus stared down the long hallway.

He knew exactly where he was going.


End file.
